Cheating Death
by paperbkryter
Summary: Post Faith ficlet Some things are only a temporary fix.


It happened while he was knee deep in the grave of a nineteenth century chef whose spirit, for as yet undetermined reasons, had decided to haunt the family bakery. The pain came out of nowhere and punched him in the chest as if he'd been hit by a truck. His breath caught. The shovel fell from hands suddenly gone numb. Momentarily stunned, he could just stand there fighting the urge to groan, and dreading what it could all possibly mean. Sam's voice broke him out of his paralysis.

"Dean?"

Dean rubbed his chest, and the pain went away. He turned his face up into the darkness above him and groused at his brother. "Why am I doin' all the work? Get your ass down here and take a turn."

Sam came down into the hole, and took up the shovel as ordered. Dean climbed out and surreptitiously walked around the side of a monument, where he leaned heavily on the stone facade trying to catch his breath. It had been four months. He had been healed, a doctor had confirmed it. So what was the deal?

_Cramp. You pulled a muscle. That's all it is. Stop being so fucking paranoid._

"Dean?"

He straightened. "Yeah?"

"I'm in."

"Okay, I'm coming."

_It was just a cramp._

His lie worked for a while, primarily because they were driving more than Hunting for the next week. It was pretty easy to ignore the tingling in his left arm, and the way his ankles swelled after a long day behind the wheel, harder to hide the discomfort from Sam who had eyes like a hawk. Sam also had good radar. How Dean managed to fly beneath it he would never know but somehow he managed.

Running up the side of a hill in Arkansas, pursuing a Chupacabra, proved more difficult. Sam outdistanced him all the time, so that wasn't a surprise, but the way Dean wheezed going up the hill wasn't normal. Also unusual was how hard his heart was beating when he'd only gone a third of the way up the mound of dirt and gravel. It felt as if his chest were being constricted by metal bands. The further he traveled up the hill the tighter they got, until he was forced to sit down - _now_ - to try to catch his breath. Tears of pain and frustration blurred his vision.

"Ah...fuck," blurted between gasping breaths pretty much summed it all up for him. He waited for Sam to come back, and by the time Sam did top the rise and come back down the hill for him, he'd recovered enough to come up with a good lie.

"Wrenched my knee."

He should have been an actor. Sam believed him, and believed the little winces of pain as they walked back to the car together. Those, however, weren't entirely feigned.

While Sam slept the next day, Dean snuck out of the hotel and drove down the road to an Urgent Clinic. It didn't take them long to confirm what he'd been afraid to admit to himself. The Reaper had only bought him some time. His heart was deteriorating, reverting back to the state it had been in four months earlier, before some other guy died to give him life.

_Four months? That's all I got outta that? What a gyp._

Cliches ran through his head: You can't cheat death. Entropy always wins.

"Blah, blah, blah," he muttered. He tapped the edge of a credit card on the counter, waiting impatiently for his prescriptions to be filled. One for the pain, one for the inflammation, one to thin his blood so his heart wouldn't have to work so hard. All three would serve to keep Sam out of the loop for a while if Dean kept them hidden.

He didn't want Sam to know for rather selfish reasons. He didn't want to see the look on Sam's face, that look of defeat knowing that his prior efforts had failed. Sure it came out that Roy'd cheated more than a little, but the bottom line had still been that Dean was alive and whole again. He also didn't want to have to deal with Sam's grief, because watching that before had hurt worse than his stupid, malfunctioning heart. Sam had even hidden most of it. Dean doubted he could this time around.

More than any of that, however, was the fact that Dean didn't want Sam's pity. He didn't want to be a burden, he didn't want to be fussed over and coddled like he'd break if touched the wrong way.

Outside the pharmacy he popped all three pills with a swallow of flat, warm soda. What he really wanted was a beer, but all the pink sticky warning labels on the pill bottles forbade it. He called his father, not expecting to get an answer. The voice mail picked up.

For a minute he couldn't say anything at all, but finally choked out a message. "Call me."

Sam was waiting for him at the hotel. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Dean went into the bathroom and hid the pill bottles in the furthest recesses of his duffle bag, where Sam was unlikely to snoop. "Couldn't sleep."

If Sam was suspicious he didn't show it. He'd found their next gig, down in Texas. It was demon taking great pleasure in destroying some oil rigs. It had possessed a work foreman, a big guy, that Dean wrestled to the ground within the choking black smoke of a fire while Sam bellowed the words that would drive the thing back to Hell. That nearly killed him right there and then. Sam dragged him out and the EMTs fed his oxygen starved system the pure stuff. It hit him like a drug induced high and all was good until they took his pulse.

It took a monumental effort for Dean to convince them not to take him to the hospital. They relented just in time too, for Sam showed up to collect him. Sam had that look on his face, the one Dean didn't want to see, but when Dean hopped out of the back of the ambulance it went away. Dean assured him things were fine. They went back to the hotel. That night Dean slept sitting up so he could breathe easier. If he laid down his chest hurt and he couldn't stop coughing.

John called the day everything came to a head. Dean took the call while they were at a restaurant in Oklahoma. Sam had gone to the restroom, leaving Dean to pick at the food he neither had the desire nor the strength to eat. Hiding his weakness took almost as much out of him as doing anything strenuous. Soon he'd have to tell Sam the truth. He doubted he'd make it through their next job.

When his phone rang he was startled. The number in the display startled him still more but he hastened to answer.

"Dad," he said, and his voice cracked like it hadn't done since he was thirteen.

_"Dean, what's wrong?" _

The dam burst.

When he started talking the words spilled out of him quickly and far easier than he would have expected. John learned of the initial accident, the miraculous healing, and the gradual return of the illness. What Dean didn't say was, "Can you come?" even though that was what he desperately wanted. Let John deal with Sam. Dean had dying to do.

The broken tone of his father's voice gave him the answer anyway. He couldn't come and Dean knew why without John having to say anything. It would be too dangerous for him to come to them. It would be a risk to his own life, and Sam's, and he would lose the thing he'd spent twenty-two years tracking. Dean wanted to know the details but there was no time. John had to go and Sam was returning.

_"I'm sorry, Dean. I love you. I'm sorry."_

Dean just said good-bye.

He tucked the phone away, bowing his head and quickly wiping his eyes before Sam reached the table. Dean should have known Sam picked up on something right then, but he was too upset to notice. Sam asked him who was on the phone and he lied. Sam asked him why he wasn't eating and Dean joked about the greasy food. When Sam asked that they stop for the night sooner than they usually did because _he_ was too tired, Dean didn't think twice about it. He was just grateful for the excuse to stop himself.

Sam brought the bags into their room. Dean went to fetch ice and some sodas. The pain in his chest never went away anymore, but sat there squeezing his ribcage with an unending ache. He couldn't take a deep breath. When he returned his heart was racing, dizziness made him wobble and it took two tries to get the key in the door. He collected himself before he went inside.

"You'll have to settle for Dr. Pepper," he said, and stopped abruptly as he saw his brother standing in the middle of the room with the pill bottles in his hands.

"What's this?" Sam demanded.

Dean set the soda and ice down on the table to avoid meeting Sam's eye. "That? That's from before, Sam."

"Do I look like I'm stupid?"

With a grin, Dean did turn to look at him. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

Sam wasn't laughing. He shook the bottles. "These are dated three weeks ago! And judging from what's left here, you've been taking this stuff."

Dean sighed. "Look, Sam..."

"It's back isn't it?" And when Dean didn't answer fast enough, "Isn't it!"

"Yeah," was easy.

It was Sam who collapsed, sinking down onto one of the beds as if his knees had suddenly given out on him. That look, that painful, pitying look that Dean had sought to avoid, was on his face. This time the hurt took on a new flavor, one called betrayal.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Oh, I dunno. I'm just a masochist I guess."

"Don't," Sam pleaded.

"Don't what?"

"This, don't do this - this pretending it's all okay." Sam looked down at his hands, staring morosely at the pill bottles. His voice cracked. "Because it's not okay." When he looked up again, there was anger and tears in his eyes. "Why didn't you _tell _me?"

Dean sat down on the other bed, and drew as deep a breath as he could. "Because I couldn't do it again," he said softly. "I couldn't watch you bust your ass looking for some miracle cure, because you know, Sammy, lightening doesn't strike twice and the Reaper was a fluke. There's nothing out there this time."

"Miracles do happen," Sam insisted.

"Yeah, and how long will the next one buy me? A month, two, _maybe_ a year? I think we've established the fact that you can't cheat death once it's been handed out, and I will put a fucking bullet in my head before I go through this a third time, Sam, I promise."

He was breathless by the time he was finished, and didn't bother to hide it. The pain made him wince and put a hand to his chest. Sam was at his side in an instant, lifting his head to peer into his eyes and putting two fingers to his jugular.

"Dean?"

"Get off, get away from me." Dean wrenched away and stood up, swaying. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"Well I would have been if you hadn't pissed me off," Dean snorted. "Piss off the dude with the bad heart, you're brilliant."

Sam ground his teeth. "Just. Stop."

"I. Can't."

He couldn't explain it either. Stopping his bullshit, or trying to explain to Sam why he needed it - either would send him into despair so deep it would kill him sooner rather than later. That was ironic considering the gap between sooner and later was narrowing with every passing hour. When he'd first come around in the hospital four months ago, he hadn't needed the doctor to confirm what he already suspected. Dean knew his own body. Right now, it was starting to fail.

"Cremation," he said quietly.

His brother flinched noticeably. "What?"

"Your options, I'm narrowing them. I'd rather not be food for worms. They can munch on old Mr. Krebs two plots down."

Dean wasn't surprised when Sam abruptly got up and left the room. He even slammed the door, making the pictures on the walls jump. Dean retrieved the pills from where Sam had left them and took all three dry. A few minutes later he'd propped himself up in bed to watch television. Over an hour went by and his brother did not return. Dean waffled between being relieved Sam was gone, and afraid he'd never return. Dying alone lost its appeal very quickly.

He fell asleep during an old episode of MASH, and woke sometime after the station had gone off the air. Static sputtered from the speakers and confetti swirled over the television screen. Dean blinked as it was shut off but didn't have the strength to do more than that, or even acknowledge his brother's return. Sam helped strip him down to a t-shirt and boxers and pulled the covers up around him, even providing another pillow beneath his feet to help with the swelling. Neither one of them said anything.

In the morning Dean woke up first. He showered, dressed, and walked just across the street to McDonalds for breakfast. When he got back he collapsed into a chair, his whole body aching. Breathing occupied much of his attention for a while.

Sam was awake. He nodded toward the grease spattered bags. "That's what's wrong with your heart, right there."

Dean smiled feebly. "Breakfast of champions," he joked, and knew they were going to be all right when Sam shook his head and laughed.

There was no teary deathbed confessional, sobbing farewell, or any other cinematic drama. They were in Kansas again, just passing through this time. Sam had heard about a hospital in California he wanted to try and he was driving hell bent to get there as quickly as possible. Dean really didn't think it would help, but the effort made Sam feel better, so he didn't say anything. The talk turned to druids and pagan rites of passage. Dean fell asleep thinking what a pity it was that he would never go Hunting in Europe.

He just didn't wake up again.

Sam turned around and drove over a hundred miles back to Lawrence, shedding tears all the way, and arrived at the hospital there barely able to function. Missouri came when he called, John didn't. There was no funeral anyway, no service what-so-ever, and only two days later Sam was back on the road, heading toward North Dakota and reports of a Yeti. A black plastic box sat on the Impala's dashboard.

Dean regarded the box with some trepidation. "What are you going to do with them?" he asked.

"I don't know," Sam replied softly. "Maybe I'll just leave them there to keep me company."

"Ha! This could be interesting."

"I'm game if you are."

"I'm always game," Dean chuckled. He pushed a cassette into the player and Metallica blasted out of the speakers.

Shaking his head, Sam reached over to turn the radio back on to the modern alternative station he'd been listening to before. At the growl of protest from the shotgun seat, he cracked a wry smile and said loftily:

"Driver picks the music, dead guy shuts his cakehole."


End file.
